Terpsichore
by Out of Custody
Summary: He comes back because there is something so utterly wrong that he can feel it back in South America and despite the fact that they are not even his anymore - he comes back, and she is not there. / Part 1 of the Mnemosyne-Series / Girl!Stiles


**So! Since I'm jumping around fandoms like a crazy person I've gotten hooked on TW and _this_ is the result; there'll be other stories in the same universe later on - also, btw, on AO3 (since I finally came around to get an account)**

 **ENJOY!**

* * *

Hindsight was always twenty-twenty – whatever the hell that was supposed to mean; probably had something to do with the fact that people felt like they 'should have known'. He could sympathise with the feeling.

As he sat on the hood of his car, ears perked, he wondered how it came that he hadn't acted any earlier – _he knew why and that wasn't actually the point, if he was honest with himself_ – and how it came that he was now listening in on one Stiles Stilinski verbally chewing off the head of her best friend.

It wasn't that he made a habit of spying on people's conversations, he'd trained hard for years to _avoid_ doing that actually – but her opening line: "I don't feel like talking to backstabbing bitches", had intrigued him, especially as, from there on it had derailed into a full-blown rant that revealed a much more in-depth knowledge about werewolves and the pertaining customs and intricacies than she'd ever let on possessing.

She was right, of course, no surprises there – if there was a person who did her homework and the extra reading because sleeping was a) overrated and b) impossible with the pill-cocktail still working their way through the human metabolism it was definitely Stiles; and he knew that over the years her 'homework' had changed its' scholarly nature only.

Not that he complained.

With what she'd fed her brain night by night she'd managed to save their furry behinds on more than one occasion – seriously, god bless the hyperactive mind.

Currently though that very mind served to sharpen an already acidic tongue to decimate a person that had been by her side all her life. And judged by her heartbeat she didn't enjoy what she was doing… but felt it necessary.

In these few moments Derek considered actually talking to her, telling her maybe even taking her with him; Lord knows he could use someone to not make this trip any more uncomfortable than it was going to get – especially alone. But he knew that while Beacon Hills would call him from wherever he went, so would his family – and Cora had been picked up by an old clan friend who'd managed to contact Deaton and now, with the whole Alpha-Pack-Problem solved and his own pack gobbled up by Scott… he had nothing that kept him here.

There was an odd comfort in hearing the crescendo of her familiar voice, no matter the walls or the distance – and even as the thought of taking her with him diminished, he revelled for a few more breaths in the sound of her before he climbed down his hood and got into his car.

He waited a little while yet in the driver's seat, watched her from this new vantage point – her free hand, including the attached arm, flailing as she gestured wildly; it was an oddly endearing habit if ever he'd seen one. She would be safe, that much was certain and important – no matter the current dispute between her and Scott, Scott was an Alpha and Stiles was an inherent part of his pack; there was no way she was going to be unprotected.

Starting the engine he looked up one last time and watched, with morbid satisfaction, as she hurled the cell-phone against the bedroom wall – she was going to be fine.

* * *

But even as he found Cora and reunited with the little sister he'd thought he'd lost, relishing in her blatant joy of having him around, he could feel the draw towards Beacon Hills – towards _home_ (towards his anchor). And he was almost ashamed to say that his sister noticed.

"Call them." She urged him, putting the phone into his hand – again. "Your mopey scent is making me all sorts of angry at you."

And since he loved his sister and, to a much-bigger-than-expected extent, his former pack – no matter their turning over to Scott – he did as told, after what felt like an eternity of hurting in a way he hadn't hurt before, giving in to the sweet temptation that was calling _home_.

He'd been gone for a month by then; knew that, whatever it was that his pack was feeling, it was impacting him the very same and he wondered why that was. Isaac was the one to answer – on the first ring – and the moment he spoke the first few sentences, he could tell how very wrong they _really_ felt.

"How are you doing?"

For a few seconds there was a hesitant silence on the other side of the line. "We're… fine." Isaac finally allowed; and, much quieter: "…missing you…"

Derek sighed softly, knowing that it would be heard – it wasn't like he didn't miss them, which was a curious incident in itself: a pack member that decidedly changed packs just… cut itself off the grid, voluntarily. There was no phantom-limb-feeling with no-longer-pack-members, they were just gone.

And still he felt his former pack acutely – all those who had survived.

He felt that while Isaac considered himself to be 'fine' he was actually getting worse, his anchor distancing herself from him a little more each day, and he could hear Lydia in the background becoming quieter every day.

"I'm coming back."

He'd made the decision impulsively; just then and there because… he couldn't be feeling this any longer – he didn't want Isaac's misery, or even Lydia's as little as he knew her. But that was not was pack was about, pack was all about the feeling you had – the many hooks that other people got into you and that you yourself couldn't help but _adopt_ in a way.

And his pack was all about that (had been from the start, really).

"When?"

Isaac's question was all but a breath, even to his ears and the relief was palatable – the sheer and utter gladness translated to Derek so flawlessly that, as if he'd been blanketed in fleece, he immediately felt warmer. He didn't even bother hiding his smile.

"Soon."

Very soon.

"We're waiting for you." -the words were not Isaac's, but he heard them all the same.

* * *

Even realistically speaking, he could admit that coming back home, back-up in tow, had been the best decision he'd ever made in his life – each mile that they closed in on the Americas was palatable to him. He wondered if his pack – Scott's pack, he had to constantly remind himself – could feel it just as acutely as he did; he almost hoped they did.

* * *

He didn't _know_ what he was doing here.

And if he was honest, he was in all actuality convinced that this was a dream – hopefully – because if this was reality…

"Derek."

He swallowed, allowing the familiar woman to grab his hand, leading him away from the open space with a sashay to her hips that, he swore, had never been there before – and that, on second look, had a forced quality to it, as if she had to remind herself to do this. They ducked through a curtain that she closed behind them again.

"This is reality." She started, but lifted her hands – he remembered: in dreams, you had additional fingers. He counted ten. "But you're asleep."

Derek furrowed his brows, grasping for her other hand – the woman shook her head, good-naturedly, but allowed him to inspect it. "You're asleep, but what you're seeing is not a dream." She explained, crooking her fingers just so that the tips brushed his skin.

"A vision?"

"More like a visit from friend to friend." She corrected, her finger-tips now more substantial against the back of his hand, grasping rather than touching.

"What are you doing here?"

It came out as a growl, as he'd intended it and his beast was pleased to see that she cringed at the sound – but didn't pull away. Her shorn hair had grown out, the little eccentricity about her he'd always admired hidden from plain view; she worried her lip.

"Long story short: I'm Allison's replacement. This is an… establishment, as you might have guessed and… well, please come and get me?"

"Where's Scott?" he asked, pulling her closer, wrapping his arms around her – this might only be a not-really-dream but he wanted to know her as safe as possible, and currently that _had_ to be within the circle of his arms; for his own sanity if nothing else.

"Don't know." She finally admitted, burrowing deeper into his embrace – the pleased rumble of his beast vibrating his chest (he didn't know, because he couldn't see, but he got the feeling that she smiled at that). "I haven't managed to contact them, and you've been AWOL for some time now… wouldn't put this coup past _him_."

There was a short moment, in which he was confronted with the impression of a middle-aged, slick man, clad in a pressed and pristine suit, hawkish features completing the predatory glint in his eyes – he needn't be told who that was, not when she pushed the feeling at him.

"How?"

"Warlock." She answered succinctly, allowing him to sit them down on the plush, velvet seats, pulling her closer and onto his lap, her feet dangling on one side. He almost didn't dare touch the naked skin that she show-cased, but it was almost impossible to touch her somewhere clothed; the scraps she wore barely covered her essentials.

He didn't need any more explanation, but he allowed himself to give in to his instincts, hiding her in the lapels of his leather jacket.

"I'm here." He promised, pulling her head under his chin – no way was he going to leave her here; no fucking way.

* * *

After that, finding the pack was impervious.

He knew that, while it was likely they'd congregated under Scott's leadership, his best chance to catch them was by dropping by at his Loft; it smelt the most like pack given the amount of time they'd spent there during their nights of scheming to overthrow a whole pack of Alphas.

As it was, he wasn't wrong – but he wasn't entirely right either.

The loft smelt heavily of pack and he could easily discern Lydia and Isaac in the plethora of smells around him, he could smell Allison too and found that he didn't mind her gun-powder-silver-leather mixing with the pack's heat-earth-blood – it fit surprisingly well. He could tell that they were often in his loft, knew that they preferred to pile together on the couch he'd saved last year from some junk-yard replacing its' stench with the comfort of home. But they weren't here.

Logically he knew that this left one possibility that he strived to explore.

Scott's house exuded the pack's scent in almost pungent waves that called to Derek like it would to any lost wolf and he would have gladly rolled in it for days on end. That desire vanished however the very moment that Isaac exploded out of the front door and, without holding his momentum, fell into his arms – the odour wafting from him signalling his distress and confusion, brightly contrasted by his dominating relief.

For a second, he tensed – unfamiliar with touches and the nearness of pack.

"Derek?"

Lydia, much as Isaac, had no shame in hiding her emotions and didn't even heed Scott's confused whine as she, too, launched herself into his embrace – or rather at him, encasing him in her arms where Isaac hadn't reached. Around him the scent of pack almost multiplied and, he had to admit, he melted.

Here were two people he hadn't seen in a month, people he'd endangered as much as he'd tried to protect them, who couldn't more blatantly state their contentment at having him near them again – not even as their Alpha, back when, had he felt this much at home.

Allison and Scott stood close to the three of them, uncharacteristic tears in the eyes of the huntress, tension draining out of the younger man's shoulders.

"It's good to have you back." Scott admitted silently – so quietly, that it was only due to his extraordinary hearing that he could make it out. "Something is seriously wrong here."

* * *

Something seriously wrong translated into one major debacle that underlined and fulfilled every fear he'd previously conjured up with the small piece of intelligence Stiles had managed to convey to him.

The warlock _had_ bewitched the pack – thusly that they couldn't, for the life of them, remember the quirky whirlwind of a girl with shorn hair; going as far as to over-see her face in pictures. He could tell that a part of them _knew_ that they were missing something; Isaac and Lydia – unsurprisingly – the most prominent in this: they both had had a deeper connection to the _spark_ than the rest of the pack.

In all honesty, he'd pegged Scott to be the one missing the young woman most, given the fact that he'd shared most of his life-experiences with her – but he supposed that _this_ was the reason he'd moved back closer to Allison again, the huntress a close second to Stiles' importance in Scott's life (no matter that they'd broken up before he'd even left the country and Allison and Isaac had been well underway of building a different understanding than the one they'd previously had).

"What is a Stiles?" the Alpha had asked with furrowed brows and while Derek himself could remember asking the same question not a year earlier, it almost hurt _physically_ hearing it from Scott.

"It's something really important." He answered instead. "It's something that the whole pack is missing – each and every single one of you."

Scott's furrow deepened. "How do I know you're not just screwing us over?"

Jesus H. Christ on a crutch – as if the spell had set them back half a year! "Listen to my heart." He challenged. "Smell my scent. Tell me if I'm lying." He waited for a beat. "You – need – Stiles."

Scott didn't question him another time.

* * *

The downside of convincing his Alpha was the fact that, now, he had to listen to what he said – mostly – and that meant going in blindly looking for 'the Stiles'. And while it was heartening to see him acting as recklessly as he'd have done if he'd truly known about Stiles, it was also idiotic to barge into unknown territory without any plan whatsoever.

Which was how they found themselves in 'The Flittering Fellow' during a Wednesday-night, Allison and Lydia hidden under caps and some cleverly applied make-up.

He wasn't surprised this time when the barely-clothed woman who presented herself as Terpsichore – of all things – grabbed his arm, leading them, giggling and nonsensically chattering, towards a curtained _Séparée_ , her eyes scanning the room surreptitiously. Luckily, Wednesday seemed to host some kind of Happy Hour, which made for a maddeningly full house and a perfect opportunity to slip under the radar.

"You idiots." She hissed when they were hidden, working quickly as she fished for something hidden underneath world's shortest short-pants – how she hid anything underneath those scraps was a wonder all in its' own. "You're causing a commotion if you arrive and leave all at the same time."

Derek didn't feel like leaving the circle of her private space and didn't hide his obvious need to stay within its' circumference as he stepped from pack-member to pack-member at her back, ears perked for any movement outside the curtain as the _spark_ handed out beaded bracelets.

"What are those?" he asked softly, when she stepped back into his chest, allowing herself to be enveloped in him – her curves were practically pressed against his front, a silhouette that, this time, he could not order his body to ignore (it had been easier during the not-dream when he hadn't been corporeal, but he was very much so at the moment).

"Counter-Jinx." She answered lowly as she reached for his arm to tie a black-beaded bracelet around his wrist as well. Stiles stood still in his space when she fixated Lydia and Isaac, dazed as if waking up from a dream: "You leave first, Scott and Ally follow you – don't wait up for Derek, he'll meet you at the loft."

They didn't question her when she enforced her plan with a mental shove to each, having them leave in the precise order she'd told them to before she turned her face to him, an uneasy look in her eyes.

"Tell me one good reason why I cannot whisk you out of here right now."

Stiles gave him a slow grin, one that told him precisely just how much she would have preferred to be 'whisked away' as he so gallantly put it – she knew, more than just as his anchor – what he meant. "He does have my name, you know."

She was slow as she turned against him, Allison and Scott leaving the curtained enclosure, before she pushed her hands against him, chewing at her lip – her next sentence a rushed breath.

"Very sorry, but you'll have to roughen me up a little. Little Shits out there won't believe you're not anything else but customers otherwise."

His heart jumped. "I don't-"

"I know." She stopped him, pushing him back onto the velveteen pillows they'd sought their comfort on last time she'd visited him with a hearty shove at his chest. She pulled her fingers through her hair harshly, making it stick up before she blatantly plopped into his lap, her eyes guilty yet determined. "But you're the best choice." She continued, clutching the lapels of his leather jacket, pulling herself in.

For the next moments all he knew was the feeling of Stiles Stilinski's – admittedly very skilled – lips on his, the pink lipstick disturbing him only marginally once her tongue sneaked into the cavern of his mouth, replacing the taste of rubber with one of peppermint and sparkling wine.

Unbidden the beast inside him reared its' head: _Mine_ –it gurgled, answering the call of the undulating siren in his lap with a low growl and grabby hands that pulled her even closer, allowing him to drown in her.

He wasn't certain how much of the breathy whine at the back of her throat was for show, but he liked to think that she didn't have to pretend with him (he hoped that maybe the arousal he smelt in the air was hers…).

* * *

He took longer than he would usually have to return back to the loft, knowing fully well that a) the pack had regained their memories of Stiles and that b) he smelt very intimately like her – of her – and couldn't very well explain it away. Not that 'airing it out' would help much, nothing short of a very good shower and a 24-h-stay under his own blankets would, but it was a start.

When he arrived, late into the night, the pack was, thankfully, too tired; piled up on the couch, an old Marvin-The-Martian-Shirt of Stiles clutched between them – the sight of it alone made him breathe easier as he traipsed towards the shower, it was a step into the desired direction.

Right now, though, he had to, regrettably, get rid of her scent on him (he wondered if she, too, was showering right now, washing off the scent he'd very possessively rubbed all over her – the mere thought alone was like a punch in the gut).

* * *

The pack looked less drawn the next day – despite the fact that both Isaac and Scott had found a shirt that had, at one point, belonged to Stiles to wear that day and Lydia herself was playing around with the spark's ancient Tetris-console.

None of them bothered to talk to him about the scent that he, still, carried around with him – despite the shower and sleep between his own sheets – especially not when it became clear that he, as the only one of them, was content to prepare breakfast.

It was past noon when one of them mentioned it – and when they did, it wasn't whom he'd suspected.

Of all people, it was Lydia.

"Do you know that you're carrying her around?" she asked, fixing a point on his chest.

Still, for the sanity of all involved, he allowed himself to play ignorant. "Carrying her around?"

The red-head pointed a finger, poking it at his chest. "Right here." She answered, as if she hadn't really heard him. "There's hooks in you."

Hooks… Jesus H. Christ on a crutch – of all things. "Can you tell… anything?"

Lydia, as if playing an invisible violin, made a plucking motion in the air, mere centimetres away from his chest (and there _was_ a tug) and then, for several moments, said nothing, head tilted, lips parted as if she'd forgotten to close them.

After a few breaths, she pinched them into her trade-mark pout, emitting a soft 'hm'-noise. "She's safe for now." She finally reiterated. "Glad we remember her, glad we're okay – a little pissed by her circumstances. We should probably move sooner rather than later."

It was the best thing he'd heard in a while.

* * *

Their problem with planning was this: Stiles always did all the planning.

Years spent Online putting her hyperactive and -vigilant brain to good use in various RPGs had honed her tactical skills to an extent where playing Risk with her was tantamount to suicide and she could predict the movement of her opponent for at least five steps (if she was tired). It had been an impervious factor to the downfall of the Alpha-pack.

"We can't just take her because he has her name?" Scott tried again – Derek had resigned himself from talking to gesturing, so he nodded.

"That'd mean we'd have to take him down though. No doubt he has it memorized – a name as outstanding as hers…" his Alpha pulled a hand through his hair. "Trust me it's a mouthful, you'll never remember it for security-moments if you don't make an effort."

"Also, might I remind you that a warlock is a very significant step-up from a druid?" Allison reminded them, playing with her father's last silver-bullet, now a pendant for her necklace – as a reminder. "I'm just saying: Deaton is a very knowledgeable man, and has more years on his shoulders than his face lets on – but a _warlock_ that's at least Deaton times five, try to imagine such a person."

The following silence was pregnant – their thoughts centring.

"So the plan is what?" Lydia finally spoke up, twirling one of her locks. "Sneak in, grab Stiles and ambush that S.O.B.?"

Isaac perked up at the familiar usage of the abbreviation, eyes wide; Lydia dignified that with one of her patented 'what?!'-glares; silencing the were-wolf into submission. Scott threw Derek a look, massaging his jaw in thought.

"Is there a better option?" he asked. "Is there a possibility for us to find out more about him without drawing targets on our backs again and risking Stiles' permanent imprisonment?"

Allison groaned, throwing her hands up and over her head, flopping backwards onto the couch. "No such thing." She choked through the cloud of rising dust.

Derek pulled a moue: "Probably our best bet." He agreed. "Also: not the first time we enter cock-headed and come out alive."

"Largely." Isaac drily commented, but didn't elaborate any further – he didn't need to in all honesty, they knew how lucky they'd been when they'd taken on the Alpha-pack.

And so it was decided to put Plan: Get-Stiles-Out-As-Quiet-As-Possible-And-Backstab-The-Bloody-Warlock-Bitch into action – if possible someday quiet in order to minimize collateral damage. It would, naturally, put them at a slight disadvantage but would probably, too, be more welcomed by Stiles. Just in case, though, Derek decided to formulate a back-up-plan… just in case; couldn't hurt to be careful, right?

Of course, however, nothing _could_ , for once, play in their favour, and even before they'd managed to locate Stiles, they found themselves confronted with a veritable horde of-

"What is this?!" Lydia groused, her rifle almost dropping from her shoulder as she raised her head in disbelief. "Victoria Secret Zombies?"

Allison didn't hesitate to shoot one of the approaching… Ladies Of Entertainment, the flashlight-arrow disabling the small group of, obviously mindless, weres. They were up quicker than anticipated. Scott released a sound that resembled a growl as much as a sigh – Derek shared the frustration.

Claws out it was.

* * *

"See, I've kept my favourite one for the last strike." The man crooned, brushing in a mock-lovingly fashion over the strands of hair escaping Stiles' bun (it was _wrong_ , he told himself, to be pleased by the growl that emitted from low in her throat).

The pack was bloody and out of breath, but what registered most to him was the way their hearts beat in perfect unity – strong, angry. Stiles' confinement did not, restrict her from spitting into her captor's face, hitting squarely between his eyes.

It did nothing to phase the warlock though, whose smile, if anything turned broader still – if menacing.

" _Listen._ ", he intoned and even Derek couldn't help but adhere to the command; the power seemed to wrap around his tongue, tumbling from his lips as it spilt words. " _Listen close, for you will please your master._ "

Derek watched with a stuttering heartbeat as Stiles' eyes turned void, her lips opening as her jaw slackened, her whole body relaxing into the grip the slick bastard had on her. " _Listen to Phanes and do his bidding._ "

His eyes turned a sick green, a powerful colour as it pinned them down, his grip on Stiles' hair almost brutal.

" _For you are mine, Mieczysława._ "

He dropped his hand then, grinning viciously when he stepped back on spidery long legs, allowing Stiles to step forward, trusted bat in her hand. Derek swallowed, fighting to keep his head still, his face empty – Jesus, how long had it been since he- Merely hours ago he'd held her so close to him, closer than he'd allowed anyone he'd ever felt anything for and now-

Scott moved, over-balancing his upper body to commence his step forward.

 _'Steht'_ –they all heard it, the command of the female echoing loudly in their heads; it was still as uncomfortable as the first time she'd done it on accident; by now he didn't even have the possibility to _call_ on his backup (The best laid plans and all that…)

"My master called me Terpsichore." She announced in a sweet voice that cloyed, that stuck, that sung so sweetly that he wanted to cry (so wrong, so wrong, so wrong!). "Do you know what it means?"

She turned her head then, stopping in a striking pose and he allowed himself to drink her in – the last time he'd see her.

Her long legs encased in black, sleek heels she'd never have chosen for herself (except for that one time… and that was a dare, if she was to be believed), endlessly flowing legs, strong muscles belying her years of running with them, the individual straps of her stockings (he remembered tearing them…) visible just underneath the end of the same shorts she'd worn _that_ day. The garter-belt was not visible above the line of her pants, giving, instead, way for delightfully, smooth skin of her inviting hips (he could have sworn he'd bruised it…); dipping at her waist, flaring into her scantily clad, buxom chest (he'd had his hands there, his mouth, _his teeth_ and there was not a single _mark_ left of him!). He drank, like a man starved, the column of her neck, the gentle dip of her suprasternal notch, the delicate structure of her jaw, her cheeks, her temples.

"It means-", she continued, raising the bat now – Titanium, a gift from Allison for her last birthday, Allison who now stood closest, "the dancing muse."

Stiles swung.

And pivoted in a perfect baseball-twist; curtesy of Sherriff John Stilinski.

The bat hit the unprepared side of the warlock who promptly sacked to his knees, jaw fractured and open, one eye barely visible, the other wide open.

 _Geht frei_

Derek stumbled from his paralysis, watching as Stiles in one smooth movement, crouched, leering at the gasping warlock at her shoes.

"Do you know the first rule of word-bound witches, Phanes?" she asked carefully, all hints of sweetness gone from her voice, now deadly calm, icy – angry. One of her arms rested carelessly over her strong thigh, the other one balanced the bat. " _Pronunciation_ … And guess what?" she leaned closer then, bending right over his ear. "That's not how you say it, dumbass."

* * *

 **Small FYI Notes:**

MIECZYSŁAWA: Feminine form of Polish Mieczysław, meaning "man of glory" or "sword of glory"  
Phanes: god of procreation, Orphic tradition  
Steht: German for 'halt/stop' used as command for several people  
Geht frei: German for 'walk free' also used as command for several people

* * *

 **... keep your feelers out for the next part of the 'verse**

 **REVIEWS ARE LOVE=D**


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